DDay siege
by Sir Dr. Pinkleton III cubic
Summary: Follow a soldier through this detailed horrendous DDay siege as he tries to stay alive. Rated M for language and depictions of violence.


Yes yes, I know the D-Day invasion is overdone, but that doesn't make it any less of a story, now does it? Enjoy!

**Warning: Contains some vulgar language and realistic depictions of death. Rated M.**

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It was WWII, Omaha beach, overcast weather, D-Day. We've been told on the radio by our president that we are brave soldiers, but I differ in opinion. Most of our ranks are new recruits who are prone to shellshock at the most in-opportune time. Not that I blame them, they've been told that war is something to strive for, an honorable thing. No one but the government is to blame for they're ignorance of wars' horrors. 

The boat rocks slowly in the French sea. I look around at the other boats, but am only able to see a few because of a fog. The fog forces our boat, and even our single persons, alone, and it doesn't help that it's eerily quiet- Boom! Except, of course, for the occasional artillery shell. Our sergeant turns to the rest of us.

"I'm not going to lie to you, most of you are going to die." He starts.

"Die!?" cry's out a private.

"That's right. Dead, deceased, not living, pushing up daises, visiting Davy Jones Locker, get it? The Germans won't stop for you to tie your shoe. They are skilled and ruthless. But with their numbers dwindling and their morale lowering, we've been given a chance to defeat them."

Boom! Another artillery shell lands nearby.

"It is up to us," he continues, "To strike them with enough force to push the crooked bastards back to Berlin!"

A small cheer shoots up.

"Now I don't want to see any of you lagging behind, scratching your balls while the rest of us are getting shot, okay?"

Boom! An artillery shell has hit a boat nearby, which almost undo's the sergeant's speech.

"Don't let them scare yo-" he starts, but is interrupted by a soldier's arm falling into the boat, the coat still attached. This, suffice to say, startles us.

"Jesus Christ!" yells a recruit.

The sergeant glares at it, mentally spitting at it for ruining his moral booster. Before he is able to mend our spirits, a cry goes up that the beach is visible. Peering through the fog I can see the fangled metal heaps they call tank traps littering the beach.

"Get ready!" a shout goes out as we crawl closer, my fear rising. We know the machine guns are trained on us; it's just a matter of if they are looking at our boat or the one beside us. I can already hear them opening fire…

The boat stops, just as quickly as my heart, and for a fleeting moment, I think that the ramp has jammed, and maybe we won't have to face the horror on the other side, waiting like a growling bulldog.

The ramp falls open. We charge out trying to find cover as soon as possible. We are fortunate; the machine guns weren't paying attention to us. I get behind a tank trap, still partly in the water. The machine gun scans over our position, but leaves shortly to fire upon some others that are not under cover. The call to move is shouted and we move forward. The machine gun sweeps over us again, and we dive down again, clutching the dirty sandy beach. To think, that this beach was once used by happy German families in the summer time, frolicking in the surf is an alien feeling. We move forward again, and when I jump down towards another tank trap I share it with a private, who is then hit in his exposed leg. The private writhes in agony as blood seeps out of his wound.

"Stay here!" I shout over the noise, "A medic will get you soon!"

He doesn't look at me; his eyes are trained on the wound.

"What the hell was that training for!?" he says.

I look over to another tank trap where a medic is, but he is sitting holding his uncovered head.

"Hey!" I yelled at him, "We need a medic!"

No answer.

"Damnit, get over here!"

No answer. When it's clear, I run over to him and punch him in the head.

"Pull yourself together!" I yell angrily.

He ignores me and only clutches his head harder. He is so damn ignorant of all around him, he could be thinking that I'm a German soldier, the idiot. I move forward, away from the frightened medic and the damaged private and end up alongside our sergeant. He looks at me and asks:

"How is the troop?" he asks bluntly. Normally, he would be punished for not knowing the status of his own troops, but within the chaos everyone has scattered.

"I don't need to tell you that we have wounded, but we have a shell shocked medic just behind us."

He looks away, thinking, then sighs and shouts out 'keep advancing'. We continue forward, leaving behind the hurt, leaving behind the scared, leaving behind the fallen. Two more advances forward and we meet the dirt barrier, lined with barbed wire, just below the dark ominous tower. Being so close, the guns do not falter in their attack.

"Arm the explosives!" yells the sergeant.

Along the line, a few men assemble long metal tubes together and begin shoving them into the barrier. After they are placed, we all cower away preparing for the explosion.

"Ready…Now!" the sergeant yells, signaling the ignition.

Dirt clods and metal fly through the air, leaving a passage to the mine-ridden front. Like blind animals, we charge through the crammed openings, yelling a dull roar throughout the battlefield. I was one of the last through, and had another soldier not have been in front of me I surely would be dead, for his torso was nearly shot through and his jaw was shot off coming through the opening. Somehow, I made it to the tower, grasping its cold, concrete walls to avoid being shot by a sniper. A suitable party had gathered beneath the scanning machine guns, so we made pairs to run through the mine and sniper gauntlet to get to the trench's that led to the tower's interior. We threw out eight grenades to try and get rid of the mines, and ended up getting 2.

The first pair went with a push, one of them dieing almost immediately from a mine which nearly killed the other one. The "survivor" laid on the ground, and then raised his hand as if to signal for help. The sniper's obliged. When the next pair prepared to go, one actually dropping his rifle so, as he said, "I can outrun the bullets". We weren't sure if he was comical or insane, but we let him go. They were pushed forward, the man without his rifle sprinting and the other with him running. Perhaps it was because of the excitement of the challenge, but the snipers concentrated their fire upon the sprinter. The dirt kicked up around him as he jumped and ran like a buffoon, taunting the Germans. After running and jumping around like a madman, he somehow made it to the trench. Each sniper shot two more rounds at the trench, probably out of anger, ignoring the other soldier who also made it across. I was up next with a brown haired fellow. He looked to be no older than eighteen.

"Go!" somebody yelled.

A hard shove pushes me forward and I run, terror pushing my bones and muscles ahead of me. The man, or rather, the boy beside me seems just as frightened. The snipers have finished reloading and are beginning to open fire. Half-way across, I trip and land face to face with a dead comrade. I freeze, and stare into his cold dead face as he is shot twice, jolting him forward onto me. I get up as fast as I can and keep running, fearing the same fate as that man. As I fling myself into the trench, a shot hits my backpack. I hit the ground, but do not move. I shut my eyes and listen to the machine gun fire and explosions as I pray to be spared. The sounds pound into my head like an angry woodpecker. It feels like an eternity before I open my eyes and another before I move from my spot. I get up slowly and turn my head towards the cliffs, dark and foreboding. The brown haired boy was farther up ahead in the trench, sitting. I walked over to him.

"Are you hit?" I ask.

"N-no," he stutters. He looks up at me.

"Then let's get this over with."

I helped him up and gave him his rifle. We made our way down the trench and eventually ended up with the other two that got across, sitting with a perplexed look.

"What's the hold up?" I asked.

"There's a machine gunner holding the entrance to the tower," one said, "he shoots through a small cement hole, so grenades are useless. Our only hope is too somehow zero in a shot at him."

We all look at the ground, thinking. I kick a rock over, and get an idea.

"How many grenades do we have?" I ask.

"I got nothing."

"I got one."

"So do I, but grenades can't hurt him."

"Perhaps, but he can't be focusing on shooting me when some grenades are kicking dirt and smoke in his eyes," I said.

"You're crazy," said the doubtful one.

"Get your grenades ready," was my reply.

With my grenade, we had three in hand. We went to the corner that headed to the gunner, hands on our pins.

"On the count of three, pull your pins and hurl your 'nades as close to him as possible, okay?"

They nodded and I counted down.

"One…" I put my finger in the pin.

"Two…" I grip the grenade firmly.

"Three!" As the grenades flew, we got under cover, and when they went off I ran as fast as I could towards the gunner with my rifle ready. When I got to the concrete wall I put my rifle through the hole, just as the man looked back up. With little hesitation I fire into his chest, sending him sprawling backwards. I called the others up and we made our way up the many ladders. At the end of the last ladder, there is a latch to the gunner's nest. I took a deep breath and push it slowly open, spotting the two gunners firing away. I helped the brown haired boy up and we snook up on them. Brandishing our knives, we got behind them, and then at the same time stabbed them in the back before pushing them out the front of the tower. From this vantage, we fired upon the snipers, quickly taking them out in surprise. After that, we climbed down the tower and ran our platoon, which congratulated us shortly. But there is much more work ahead of all of us.

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Did you like it? Was it real enough for you? Or not real enough? Read and Review if you feel like it, I'd appreciate critisism


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